


Ballistics Report

by iwearthedamnhat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, John Watson in uniform is everything honestly, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Smut, Teasing, Top John Watson, bottomlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwearthedamnhat/pseuds/iwearthedamnhat
Summary: Captain John Watson. He hasn’t been addressed that way in years. But here, writhing and lurching under his fingertips, a high-functioning sociopath is submitting to his every command with no hesitation. It’s irresistible. John could get used to this.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 52
Kudos: 212
Collections: Be my Valentine - Johnlock Collection, Johnlock Anniversary - January 29th





	Ballistics Report

John was beginning to see a pattern.

He saw it in the looks Sherlock gave him, the slight upturn of his lips into devilish smirks, the way Sherlock momentarily broke character when John pulled rank on those around him on cases. He could see the way Sherlock brought his thick coat closer together in haste, but John could see the erection already forming against his leg. Of course no one else saw. Even Sherlock was trying to hide it from John. But John wasn’t daft. 

John set the mug to Sherlock’s right, who was currently staring into his microscope on the kitchen table. His long fingers were carefully manipulating a glass slide into place, before reaching out to grab the cup instinctively. John peered at him for a touch longer than necessary. 

He seemed completely normal, even after having shoved John up against the back of the door when they came back from their case that day, slipping to his knees immediately and sucking John off a tad forcefully, stalking off to their room after John took less than three minutes to come. He had emerged thirty minutes later when John had set dinner on the table. 

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said quickly, before taking a sip. He set the mug back down carefully, his eyes flickering to make sure nothing was in the way.

“Another late one, then?” John asked, gaze skimming over Sherlock’s frame. His dark curls brushed the top of the microscope, his slate blue eyes lit up by the light, irises flicking back and forth, examining, concentrated. Sherlock’s hands were manipulating the dials carefully. A thin navy blue dress shirt clung to his form, too tight, as usual. 

“Just need to finalize the reports on this last one.” Sherlock muttered, still consumed in his work. 

John took in a calculated breath. He and Sherlock had been overworked as of late, and John missed him. The past couple of weeks had been hard on them both, case after case piling in. The final one finally solved, though, meant that tomorrow would be the first day off for them in quite a while. John had hoped to start it off early tonight, but the stature of Sherlock now meant that he would be late to bed. John was almost used to it by now. 

Rounding the table, he placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders from behind. Sherlock relaxed slightly, his dark curls fidgeting as he turned his head a bit to the right. 

“I miss you,” John said quietly, leaning forward into Sherlock’s hair, breathing in deeply. The smell of luxurious shampoo mixed with the outdoor air permeated his nose. John pressed his lips to the top of Sherlock’s head, and he felt a hand slide onto his, thumb rubbing his skin. 

“I know. As do I,” Sherlock said. He turned fully, and John took a small step back. The chair underneath him squeaked in protest.

Sherlock rested his hands on John’s hips. “I’ll try not to be too late tonight, alright?” His reassuring tone flooded over John. He smiled. When Sherlock wanted to be charming, he could have John in his hands like putty.

“Alright,” John replied, his hand stroking over those soft, dark curls again and again. Sherlock hummed, a deep contented sound in his throat.

John leaned down, catching Sherlock’s mouth with his. It was a simple, loving kiss, and the two broke off after a few seconds. 

Sherlock gave John’s hips a tight squeeze. “I love you, John.” His voice was low, dark and passionate. The detective’s lips tugged up into a grin, and John melted. He couldn’t resist that smile.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John replied quietly. His hand snuck up to touch Sherlock’s neck, feeling the smooth skin under his fingertips. He tapped his neck lightly.

“Right. Don’t leave me to sleep alone tonight, understand?” John said a bit louder now, hands slipping off of Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s grin was still plastered on his face as he swung back around to his microscope. “Of course not, doctor. Keep the bed warm for me.” He picked up a pen, scrawling something on the notepad to his right. 

John smiled, his gaze slipping down to the floor. His feet shuffled forward, unwillingly, loathe to part with the man and his microscope. His hand wrapped around the doorknob to Sherlock’s room. Well, their room, now. John was still trying to get used to calling things theirs now. Their room. Their bed. Sherlock was _his_ now, and he was Sherlock’s, and John still found himself in denial about it sometimes. He had been in denial about having feelings for Sherlock in the first place, but when they finally came around to realizing it, finally confessed it and lived in it… it was just right. It had always been right, from the moment John had laid eyes on the man staring into a microscope at Bart’s. Some things never changed. 

John’s thoughts still lingered on those first days of him and Sherlock Holmes as he changed into pyjamas, slipping into the bed, under the thick covers Sherlock loved so. He shifted over, closest to the wall, where he had taken to sleeping. He knew Sherlock liked to take the path of least resistance, so not having to round the bed at night in the dark was more preferable to him. John didn’t mind. 

He breathed in, the smell of Sherlock potent and intoxicating on the bed. He nestled his head deeper into his pillow. Sherlock didn’t spare any expense on bedding, and John was grateful for it. It made for a much better sleep, that, good bedding and someone to share the bed with. John hadn’t slept as well as he had the last few months as he had in years. 

After a few minutes, John’s mind was beginning to slow, and his breathing became more even. John’s thoughts began to wander, and eventually they settled on the unexpected blowjob he had received earlier in the day from Sherlock. His mind played with the tendrils of the why’s, but John knew. He had pulled rank on a young corporal that day, and it had set Sherlock off. 

Confusion tugged at John’s sleepy mind. Surely Sherlock knew that John knew. It was pretty obvious. But, for some reason, Sherlock didn’t want to make it explicitly known. Was he embarrassed by it? Trying to suppress it? Did he think John would rebuke him for it? 

John made a disgruntled sound into the pillow. No, it wouldn’t do. A sly smile crept up John’s face, his eyes still closed tight. He began imagining the possibilities, what it could mean to let Sherlock know it was okay, to indulge the detective in this… what were they called again? Right, kinks. Sherlock’s kink. John would be more than happy to. He had told Sherlock he’d do anything for him, hadn’t he? He could do this, then. Would do this. If Sherlock thought it wouldn’t be appropriate for him to bring up the possibility, then John would show him that it was.

John opened his eyes, blinking to adjust to the darkness. He cast his gaze over to where the door was, outlined in bright light coming in from the hallway. He chuckled sleepily. Sherlock would be in for a surprise tomorrow, then. 

The exhaustion from the long day took over then, and John let himself slip into a deep sleep. 

***

The light from the window roused John early the next morning. He shifted slightly, but felt long arms enveloping him. A smile played across his face, and he snuggled his head closer into Sherlock's chest. It was warm and lovely here. 

Sherlock hummed, pulling John in tighter. His hand ran through John’s short hair, and tingles spread through his skull. John snaked his arm around Sherlock’s waist, fingertips sliding under the hem of his shirt, playing at the delicate skin of his lower back. 

“Good morning.” Sherlock’s voice was more awake than John had expected, and he lifted his head up to peer at him.

“Morning,” John replied. His sight was bleary. “How long have you been up?” His mouth opened wide in a yawn, and he brought his free hand up to rub away the sleep in his eyes.

Sherlock chuckled lightly. “A while.” He continued rubbing at John’s head, lithe fingers spreading out and coming back together on his scalp. 

“You’re going to make me fall back asleep if you keep doing that,” John griped, though he had no real objection to the touches. He never did. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed again. He leaned down to place a deft kiss on John’s forehead, then swung himself out of bed, covers flying over John’s form, feet hitting the wooden floor with a thunk. 

John grimaced, flattening the blanket back in place. The absence of Sherlock’s warm body was abrupt and unwelcome. He looked up, more alert.

Sherlock strode over to the dresser, pulling out a clean outfit. He shed his pyjamas quickly, leaving the clothing on the floor.

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s bad habit. “You’re leaving?” he asked.

“Yes, Lestrade’s expecting me this morning,” Sherlock said, pulling his black trousers up over his legs. John forgot to reply as he watched Sherlock dress, watching the way the fabric of his clothing accentuated every angle as it was slid on. He didn’t know how Sherlock had stayed single for so long when he looked like _that_ all the time. 

Sherlock shrugged a black suit coat over his burgundy dress shirt, turning to look at John. He smiled at him, eyes combing his blanketed figure down then back up. 

“I’m sorry to be leaving so early,” he said, moving to sit on the side of the bed. His hand stretched out, grabbing John by the back of the head, leaning down. John craned up to meet Sherlock, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss. 

They moved against each other hungrily, and John moaned quietly. Sherlock’s tongue darted into John’s mouth, and John grasped at Sherlock’s arm desperately. Christ, Sherlock wasn’t being fair to him this morning. 

Sherlock tapped the back of John’s head twice with his fingers, an unspoken command. Their mouths separated as Sherlock let John’s head fall back onto his pillow. 

Sherlock’s eyes flitted open, and he cleared his throat. He leaned back up, placing a hand against John’s chest. John caught the hand with his own.

“Don’t be too long, understand?” John said, chiding. His voice was a bit rough. 

Sherlock laughed out loud, smile infectious. “Now, when have I heard that before?” he asked playfully. 

“It’s our day off, Sherlock,” John said, a hint of seduction rising in his voice. “Don’t let Lestrade get in the way of that.”

“Not even Lestrade could keep me from you. Not Mrs. Hudson, not Mycroft, not even Moriarty. Not today, John,” Sherlock said, abruptly rising from the bed. 

And just like that, Sherlock whipped out of the bedroom, and John heard him flying down the staircase to the front door. 

John sat in silence for a moment, contemplating. A sigh escaped his poor, mistreated lips. He started calculating times. Sherlock would probably be gone for two hours, if not a bit longer. It would give him enough time to shower, eat, and dress. More than enough time to come up with a game plan. Some more time to actually muster up the courage to do what he was about to do. 

John’s fists subconsciously balled up the impossibly soft blanket around him, as his mind reeled with possibilities. It was a little over the top, really. Nonetheless, a wicked smile spread across his face. He enjoyed pulling rank. But pulling it on Sherlock? The genius, the world’s only consulting detective? The man who had to get the last word with everybody? Arousal rushed in heated waves over his body. 

This would be fun. 

***

Sherlock slammed the door behind him, taking the steps up to 221B two at a time. The steps groaned and squealed beneath his footfalls. Sherlock was in a great mood, his coat swirling about him as he reached the landing to the flat. 

Lestrade had told him he was turning off his mobile today, and the entirety of the office was instructed not to contact Sherlock in any way. He thought he was forcing Sherlock to take the day off himself, but it was quite the contrary. 

Sherlock didn’t need a day off, not really. His mind never tired, never faltered. It thrived off of work. 

But, despite countless people claiming Sherlock knew nothing of love, he knew it well. John had been a relentless partner these past few weeks. Murders, suicides, one serial killer and a lost and found dog of a member of parliament later (ugh), Sherlock noticed how worn down John was. The way he flopped down in his armchair every night, the way he glanced at Sherlock with that look in his eyes, how he slept for ten hours almost every night. His touches were wanting, were pleading, but he was exhausted. 

Sherlock felt… bad. It was an unnatural slew of cases, unmoving and almost difficult. Almost. He didn’t mean to give off an uninterested aura. Quite the opposite, really. Sherlock missed him too. Craved his touch. 

Sherlock opened the door with a flourish, slinging his jacket off of his body with one swift movement. 

“Well, I’m quite pleased that's all over with,” Sherlock said, hanging his coat on the hook behind the door. “As expected, the chemical properties of the clay on the victim’s throat gave me enough information for the Yard to properly convict the strangler.”

Sherlock stalked across the room, his loud steps reverberating throughout the small space. He picked up his red dressing gown from the back of his armchair, pulling it over himself before sitting down hurriedly. His left leg came up over his right, his ankle resting neatly on his right knee.

“You’d think a strangler would be more conscious about washing his hands before strangling someone,” Sherlock sarcastically noted, then shook his head clear. “Lestrade told me no one was to contact me today, as if they’re doing me a favor. Now, John-”

Sherlock stopped short, only just now looking up to an empty chair before him. He frowned, a spike of disappointment panging in his chest. Where was John? He had been so receptive this morning, borderline obsessive. Sherlock knew John would be dying for him to get home. So where-

A sound caught his attention. A very loud sound; clamping footfalls in John’s old room. Sherlock cocked his head slightly. Was John in his old room? What was he doing up there? John’s distinctive gait moved slowly, coming to rest at the top of the staircase. 

Sherlock heard a breath, an unsure breath. His curiosity peaked. 

The footsteps started to descend the steps, and Sherlock analyzed them. Still unsure, still… nervous. But confident. Cocky. He was wearing heavier shoes, why heavier shoes? The way he was walking down the stairs indicated he was not going out, the gait was too careful, not casual at all, but yet he still wore heavy shoes.

Boots. John was wearing boots. But the only reason he would be up in his old room would be to put on boots he didn’t have in his normal wardrobe. Much heavier than standard men’s boots. His old combat boots.

Sherlock’s breath hitched as he came to his deduction. A million thoughts crash-coursed through his mind before John’s boot clad feet even came into view. 

But come into view, they did. Sherlock froze. His mouth parted slightly, hands gripping the rests of his armchair unconsciously tight. 

John appeared in the doorway, and Sherlock almost felt as if his mind was short circuiting. He blinked furiously, trying to clear the illusion from his mind’s eye. But it stayed the same when he opened his eyes fully again.

John stood before him, but this wasn’t the John Sherlock knew. This was the John Sherlock had only caught glimpses of, only seen when absolutely necessary. He was something out of Sherlock’s wildest, most secret dreams. 

He was dressed in his old army uniform, clean and sharp as his days in the war. Fatigue pants with a thick, dark olive belt. A grey shirt tucked neatly into them. His pants were cuffed twice above the aforementioned heavy combat boots. A chain peaked its way out of his shirt, looping around his neck. The outline of two circular pieces of metal jutted out underneath the fabric around his chest. 

John’s feet were planted shoulder length apart, his hands clasped behind his back. His face was set, his mouth in a thin, authoritative line. His hair was neatly combed to the side, the front swept up with gel. He tipped his chin up at Sherlock, cocking an eyebrow. Sherlock forgot how to breathe.

“John?” Only a whisper escaped Sherlock’s mouth, the only syllable he could utter in the moment. 

John’s eyes were boring into Sherlock’s skull. The corner of his lip twitched up.

“On your feet, soldier.”

Chills ran down Sherlock’s spine. Oh. _Oh_. 

Of course, Sherlock had made it no secret that he was attracted to this side of John. But he never wanted to push him on it, thought it would have made John uncomfortable. Afraid it would have made John disgusted, even. Things like this were delicate- maybe past Sherlock would have had no problem crossing that line, but present Sherlock wanted to actually keep John, not lose him because of his borderline-inappropriate kink. He loved John too much.

It seemed John loved Sherlock even more. He would have never thought in the whole of eternity that John would do this for him. 

Oh God.

“Did you hear me? I said, on your feet,” John commanded once more, his voice strong and clear. 

Sherlock rose, a movement not of his own doing. 

“Good, you can hear me, then,” John crooned. 

Sherlock’s breath quickened. He closed his mouth, suddenly conscious that it was still hanging open. His eyes began to wander, scraping over every minute detail of John’s appearance, making sure to store it away tightly in his mind palace. It would never leave, no matter how long he lived.

John walked his way over to Sherlock, slowly, his boots accentuating each step on the hardwood floor, his hands still firmly clasped behind his back.

He stopped within inches of Sherlock, tipping his head up to look at him. 

“Eyes forward,” John said.

Sherlock hesitated, but tore his eyes from John, fixing them on the refrigerator. 

“Step forward.” 

With no hesitation this time, Sherlock took a step forward. He could feel his heart beating out of his chest.

The sound of boots striking the floor hit Sherlock’s ears again as John slowly rounded him. He could feel John’s eyes grazing his form up and down. 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed. “John-” he began.

“That is not my name, soldier. You will address me as Captain Watson or Sir at all times. Is that understood?” John cut him off, his tone firm. Heat pooled around Sherlock’s groin, and he fought to suppress a moan. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Yes?” John asked, rounding to Sherlock’s right side now.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied, a bit more assuredly now. His cock throbbed at the sound of his own voice admitting submission. 

A short, muffled laugh rumbled in John's throat, and he finally stood in front of Sherlock. Sherlock kept his eyes firmly planted on the fridge, but his focus was solely on the small sliver of John he could catch in the lower field of his vision. 

“Hmm,” John hummed, eyes sliding down Sherlock’s front. Sherlock saw his eyebrows shoot up momentarily at the sight of what was probably the most obvious erection in human history. Sherlock felt a pang of embarrassment, showing John how much some simple commands from him could turn him on like the flick of a light. His right hand fidgeted nervously at his dressing gown.

John uncrossed his arms from behind his back, and his right hand wandered up to Sherlock’s face, fingers gently caressing Sherlock’s jaw line. Sherlock wanted to give in, wanted to press his face into John’s palm. He fought the urge, standing as still as a statue. Sherlock was taking cues from John now. He would not do a thing unless John told him to. 

John’s fingers explored, running the outline of Sherlock’s jaw, up and over his cheekbones, down to his lips, burning Sherlock’s skin every inch of the way. Sherlock’s lips parted slightly under the pressure, hot breaths rolling over the fingertips tracing the shape of his mouth. The touch glided over his chin, down his throat slowly, before resting on top of the fabric of his dress shirt. John paused.

“You think you have what it takes to be part of my regiment?” John asked, a bit quieter now. He took the silky fabric of Sherlock’s shirt between his fingers, rubbing his thumb over the first button. 

“Yes, Captain Watson.” Another surge of arousal ripped at Sherlock’s mind as he said the title. He breathed in, shuddering slightly.

“Look at me,” John commanded in a low voice.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John, and he sucked in a breath. John’s eyes were overcome with lust, a slight crack in his armor. But he was beautiful, god, he was so beautiful like this. 

“You don’t think I know, Holmes? You don’t think I see how bothered you get when I pull rank on poor, unsuspecting blokes? Do you think I’m stupid?” John growled. His left hand joined his right, forcefully undoing the top button of Sherlock’s shirt. 

“No, sir.” A small smile played at Sherlock’s mouth; he was fully committed to the role now. Only short, sharp answers. Sherlock was familiar with the way soldiers were expected to act in the presence of their superiors. And he would play the part of soldier well for John.

John’s hands worked quickly, buttons slipping out of their holes in quick succession all the way down Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s skin prickled with the sudden rush of cool air.

“Your type are all the same. Lusting after your superiors.”

A gasp escaped his mouth as John flattened his hands on Sherlock’s chest, warmth spreading from his palms. A grin split John’s face. His hands began to move, thumbs kneading his flesh, sliding down to his stomach, brushing at the trail of hair leading from his navel that disappeared into his trousers. The touch reached out to the vees of his hips, tracing the dips in his flesh. Sherlock tried to suppress a groan, his hips arching out slightly, his cock begging to be touched.

John glanced down at the small movement. “Eager, aren't you? And beautiful, too, there's no denying that.” 

His left hand gripped around Sherlock’s back with haste, and John pulled him in. Their bodies crashed together, flushed against each other, John reaching his right hand down to Sherlock’s crotch, palming at his aching cock. 

Sherlock couldn’t contain it, couldn’t stop the moan from ripping out of his throat. John’s hand kneaded at him, running up the shaft, back down to grasp at the head, rubbing it through the intrusive fabric that Sherlock wanted to rip off of himself. Sherlock forgot how to breathe, forgot how to function. His curls dipped over his eyes as his head instinctively bent into John’s neck, panting into it. His body turned slack, his hands gripping onto John’s shoulders for dear life. 

John lifted his head, his mouth positioned at Sherlock’s ear. His teeth caught the lobe, sucking on it. Sherlock cried out again, his hips snapping into John’s grip. 

“This is what you wanted, wasn’t it soldier?” John hissed into Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock could do nothing but nod into John’s neck, needy whines punctuating each stroke of his cock. It was everything, _everything_ that he wanted. 

John chuckled darkly, hot breaths rolling over Sherlock's ear. “It’s nice seeing you writhe beneath my fingertips. But did you honestly think you would get the first orgasm?” He licked a long stripe at Sherlock’s neck, fingers manipulating Sherlock’s cock a bit harder. Sherlock shook his head, but his mind begged for release.

But then, the contact was gone, and John was gone. Sherlock bit off a frustrated whine trying to escape from his throat. 

John clamped over to his armchair, taking a seat. He spread his legs open, his own hard cock pressing into the fabric of his fatigues. Sherlock stood still, panting, John raking his eyes over him, laying his arms over the armrests of his chair, his hands hanging over defiantly. He tapped his foot once.

“On your knees.” 

Sherlock clambered to the floor, inserting himself between John’s legs, his long fingers wrapping around John’s thighs and squeezing with pure desperation. Sherlock wanted John, wanted to please him, wanted to do _anything_ for his captain. He looked to John, waiting for his next command. 

“Before we begin,” John started, his fingers running through Sherlock’s curls, “Do you have a safeword, soldier?” 

“Ballistics,” Sherlock answered without skipping a beat.

John’s eyebrows pricked up, his lips forming an amused line. “Right, then.”

Removing his hand from Sherlock’s hair, John found his way down to his belt. His fingers unbuckled it slowly, the two ends pushed to the side. The buttons of his pants came undone, the fly slowly unzipped. Sherlock groaned. All he could do was wait. Wait and burn. It was tantamount to torture at this point. His cock throbbed, still restricted in bloody clothing. Sherlock resented his clothing at this very moment. Envy washed over him as he watched John work to free his own erection. 

John put a finger under Sherlock’s jaw, tilting his head up. Sherlock locked his eyes onto John, and John’s face contorted with pleasure. His cock was still covered with the fabric of his boxers, but he was palming at it with his right hand, eye contact never broken from Sherlock as he moaned quietly, his eyebrows furrowing. 

Sherlock’s hands slid further up John’s thighs, his eyes begging John for something, _anything_.

John’s finger fell from Sherlock’s jaw, and he pulled out his erection with both hands. It sprang forward, thick and waiting. John grasped it in his hand, giving it a long stroke upwards. He threw his head back, moaning to the ceiling. 

Sherlock was impatient now. Too impatient. “Captain Watson,” he almost spat out, a question and a statement rolled into an almost irritated tone. 

John picked his head up, looking at Sherlock with severity. “Watch your tone, soldier,” he warned. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you. Tongue out.” 

Sherlock leaned forward, his tongue rolling out of his mouth, waiting.

John took hold of his cock with his right hand, taking Sherlock’s chin with his left. He guided his cock to line up with Sherlock’s mouth, smacking it down onto his tongue once, twice, three times. Precome flew off of the tip, spattering Sherlock’s taste buds with salt. John groaned, smearing the glans across his tongue repeatedly.

“Do you want to please your captain, Holmes?” John asked.

Sherlock withdrew his tongue. “More than you can know, _sir_.” 

“Then show me why you deserve my cock,” John said, an invitation.

Finally. 

Sherlock flew forward, his mouth hungrily devouring John’s cock, his hand grasping the base tightly. John cried out, possibly breaking character a bit, but Sherlock didn’t care. All he was focused on was John throbbing in his mouth as he bobbed up and down, precome pumping out onto his tongue every time it swirled around the head and over his slit. He hallowed his cheeks out, creating a vacuum, languid sucking noises sounding throughout the sitting room. God yes, _at last_. John tasted absolutely divine.

John’s hands flew to Sherlock’s head clumsily, grasping at his skull, pushing down hard. Sherlock felt John’s cock slide to the back of his throat, and was rewarded with a dirty moan pushing out of John’s mouth. 

Sherlock growled, his movements being guided by the hands pressing down on him. He lifted his eyes to John, surprised to see John staring right back at him. His teeth were clenched together, his eyes wide open.

“Fuck, Holmes,” John spit out, his words quivering slightly. He panted, chest heaving. Then he bent over, getting as close to Sherlock’s left ear as he could while continuing to fuck Sherlock’s throat.

“You have no idea how much the sight of you taking my cock down your throat turns me on,” John whispered heavily. “It turns you on too, doesn’t it?” 

Sherlock moaned at this, his own cock thrusting forward and unexpectedly finding purchase with John’s armchair. He scooted closer, rutting into the fabric of the chair, the friction not enough, not enough, dammit. He groaned in frustration, the sound muffled as John continued to bury his cock into Sherlock.

John chuckled in his ear, deep and low. “Look at you. So horny you’re humping my bloody chair.” 

John’s words choked off, and he threw his body back, a _fuck_ drawn out of his mouth as Sherlock worked his cock harder now, a hand neatly massaging his tightening sac, and Sherlock knew he was getting close. Sherlock snaked his other hand up John’s shirt, feeling a brief flash of cool metal as he ran his fingertips over John’s nipple. 

John cursed again, a string of expletives as Sherlock rolled his nipple between his finger and thumb. 

“I- I can’t, oh Christ-” John barely got the final word out. A strangled noise twisted from his mouth.

He was coming, liquid forcing its way down Sherlock’s throat, John’s fingers twisting into Sherlock’s curls. His hips snapped up off of the chair, driving his cock as far as he could into Sherlock, apparently wanting the whole of his torso to follow through as well. Sherlock’s lips met the skin of his base, John’s cock bucking on his tongue, held there until he was certain he wouldn’t be able to breathe if John didn’t let go. 

John eased down just as the lack of air was becoming uncomfortable. Sherlock let his cock slip out of his mouth, a small gasping noise coming from him as he sucked in air. John’s breathing above him was ragged, uneven. The two sat in silence for a bit, the only sound their gasping breaths, in and out, Sherlock’s hands resting on John’s thighs, John’s hands still curled around Sherlock’s skull. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Did you find that satisfactory, Captain Watson?” Sherlock asked, a rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. A slight smile tugged at his lips.

John looked down at him incredulously, pausing a beat before answering. “You’re more skilled than you look, soldier,” he slipped back into captain easily, but looked a beaten wreck. Sherlock almost laughed at the downplay of his skill; John had admitted many times that Sherlock’s blowjobs were only barely second to actually fucking him. 

“But you’re a bit mouthy, aren’t you?” he noted. “Seems like I need to be a bit rougher with you. Will that be a problem?” he asked. 

Sherlock’s pulse picked up, heat spreading through his skull. He had never seen a rough John. Was it his birthday? 

“Not at all, captain,” he replied, the small smile still threatening to blow up into a full-fledged grin.

John’s hand came to Sherlock’s throat then, wrapping around it before dragging Sherlock up into his lap. Sherlock fell onto John with uncoordinated, clumsy movements, and John latched his mouth onto Sherlock’s.

Sherlock moaned, his mouth forced open by John’s eager tongue. He fought back with his own, the two warring, tasting each other, John licking up whatever remnants of his own come remained in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock pressed into him harder, grasping onto the sides of John’s neck with both of his hands, his knee forcing its way between John’s and the edge of the armchair. He thrust forward, his cock finding purchase against John’s waist, and little noises escaped his throat with each thrust. 

John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s neck briefly, pushing him back forcefully. Their mouths separated with a wet pop. 

“Bedroom. Now,” John growled. “Then we’ll get you settled, yeah?” 

Sherlock nodded, swallowing once, tasting John on his tongue. 

John pushed Sherlock off of him by his neck, hand releasing to grab at his wrist. Sherlock staggered behind him, being pulled down the hallway. John opened the door forcefully, leading Sherlock in before shutting it behind him again, locking it into place with a click. 

John stared at Sherlock, standing in the middle of the floor space, never taking his eyes off of him as he stepped over to the bed in three short strides, plunking down onto the side of the mattress.

A smile formed over his mouth. Sherlock shivered. He had no idea what to expect now, now that they were here. The same place where Sherlock snuggled John in the early hours of the morning, wide awake, stroking his recently-greying hair as he slept peacefully, deep breaths pulling Sherlock into bliss. The memories flooded over Sherlock as he looked to the man in front of him now, legs spread wide, cock still hanging between them, grey shirt begging to be ripped off of his chest, his combat boots twitching slightly as John readjusted his foot. God, Sherlock needed to get off. Needed it more than he needed air. 

“Strip for me,” John said, breaking the deathly silence in the room. “Not that I can’t tell you how I would take you just like this, with your shirt open and your fitted trousers shoved down to your thighs. But I want a show.” John paused again. “Slowly, if you please.” 

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock’s voice was gravelly. 

His cock throbbed again, catching John’s attention. Sherlock brought his hands up to his shoulders, carefully peeling off his dressing gown, letting the fabric slide down his arms, caress his back, before holding the garment out in his right hand, letting it float to the ground with a _woosh_. John looked back up at him with expectant eyes.

Sherlock removed his shirt next, his long, lithe fingers unbuttoning his cuffs, first the left, then the right. He shrugged the garment off with no hands, the silky fabric leaving his skin exposed to the air, first his shoulders, his upper arms, his forearms, swinging it around his body as it cleared his hands. The shirt joined the dressing gown, laying on top in a heap. 

Before thinking about it, Sherlock’s hands reached up to his nipples, flicking over them, rolling them between his fingers, a low moan escaping his throat as he tipped his head to the ceiling. That was sure to catch John off guard. 

It did. John’s lips let loose a quiet _christ_ , and Sherlock smiled. He brought his eyes back down to meet John’s, and John was palming at his still flaccid cock. Sherlock estimated it would be some time before he was hard again, his refractory period being at least twenty minutes. But whatever John planned on doing with Sherlock, he needed it now. He continued on. 

John’s eyes followed Sherlock’s hands down, fingers brushing down his torso, curving over his trousers to his belt. The belt clinked as it was undone, the sound of the belt slipping from each loop the only sound in the room before clattering noisily to the floor. Sherlock looped his fingers around the button, freeing it from its restraints. The fly came undone, and John was licking his lips now. Sherlock was enjoying this far too much. A captain lusting over his charge, watching him strip. 

He made quick work of his shoes, unlacing them and pulling them off along with his socks in one movement, setting them neatly on the wall. 

Sherlock peeked up, his dark curls partially blocking the view of John on the bed. The man looked ready to pounce as Sherlock slid his black dress trousers down. 

Well, John shouldn’t have told him to go slowly, then.

Before Sherlock could even finish, John bolted upright.

“Enough,” he said roughly.

Sherlock barely stepped out of his trousers before John was on him, pushing him backwards, taking his arm to flip him around before shoving his chest into the wall. Sherlock huffed out in surprise, his back being firmly held in place with John’s forearm. He heard John ruffle around in his fatigues pockets, before the familiar sound of a bottle cap clicking open caught his ear. 

A hand caught Sherlock’s hip, pulling his arse backwards. Sherlock felt his boxer briefs being ripped down, his erection finally, finally free. A tangled noise left his mouth as a slick hand caught it, slowly stroking downwards, pleasure coursing up through his spine straight to his brain. The other arm left his back, and more slick fingers were pressed against his hole. 

Sherlock groaned, loud and unabashed, his cock reveling in touch, slowly, agonizingly slow, John’s hand twisting his burning flesh. Sherlock twitched backwards, the pressure against his entrance maddening. He wanted, _needed_ to be filled.

John mouthed at Sherlock’s shoulder blade, a growl vibrating the skin. “You want my fingers in you, don’t you, soldier?” His thumb massaged along the ridges of Sherlock’s hole, and he pressed his eyes shut, wanting to scream.

“Please, please John-” Sherlock sucked in a breath, catching his mistake. “Sir.” 

“Don’t forget who you’re speaking to, Holmes.” 

John sunk a finger into Sherlock. Sherlock’s mind halted. The finger pushed all the way in, and an unfamiliar sound rang out in the room as it crooked inside of him. Was that him? 

Sherlock’s hand clawed against the wall, John’s finger pushing in and out him rhythmically with the speed that John’s other hand was sliding up and down the length of his cock. The rough texture of his fatigues bit at Sherlock’s thighs, his combat boots pressed up against his bare feet. Sherlock relished the feeling of being exposed like this while John was still clothed. 

“I like you like this. Shoved up against the wall, completely incapacitated, so utterly _mine_ ,” John breathed out, his voice starting to shake. His cock was starting to swell against Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock cried out as a second finger entered him, twisting and pumping in and out, his prostate being brushed expertly by the doctor with each pulse.

It was too much. Heat started to pool in his core, threatening to burst. He didn’t want to come, not yet. His body was shaking, sweat coating every inch of his skin, his breaths coming out in small hyperventilating gasps. John was lost, beginning to push his erection against Sherlock.

“Captain,” his voice was too strained, too broken. “Captain Watson, please, I can’t-.” He swallowed hard, coating his dry throat.

John’s head snapped up against him. His hand released Sherlock’s cock, fingers exiting him, and a whine escaped Sherlock’s throat as he did so, his almost inevitable orgasm subsiding. 

Then Sherlock felt a hand grasp onto his curls, and he was being dragged across the room, pain prickling across his scalp. His back hit the bed forcefully, and his mind produced thousands of thoughts. The pain should shock him, should turn him off, should _offend_ him. But it didn’t. God, it didn’t; it did the exact opposite. His eyes shot up to John above him, and his breathing stuttered to a standstill.

John’s eyes were wild, his formerly well manicured hair a mess and damp with sweat. His lips twisted into a devilish grin as he pushed Sherlock’s legs up to his chest. A wild animal ready to devour his kill.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” John directed at Sherlock, hands peeling his now sweat-soaked grey shirt off. “I’m going to fuck you until you think you can’t handle it anymore. Is that clear?”

Sherlock licked his lips, tasting salt. “I don’t think that’s possible, sir.” His voice was quiet, and he knew it would set John off. Good.

“You’re going to wish you hadn’t said that,” John growled, rewarding Sherlock’s prodding.

The click of the bottle came again, John slicking his cock. He lined himself up with Sherlock’s entrance, and slowly eased himself in. Sherlock groaned, his back arching as the head of John’s cock stretched him open. His legs instinctively wrapped around John’s waist, pulling him all the way in. It was glorious, the feeling of John filling him up, his hands gripping onto Sherlock’s hips with an iron grip.

“Jesus Christ,” John moaned out.

He eased back before plunging back forward again, and John set himself on his promise. 

He began driving his cock into Sherlock in a frenzy, pulling Sherlock toward him with each stroke. John was gasping, pulling in air greedily. Sherlock’s eyes were beginning to roll into the back of his head, slowly losing control of himself, the only thing his mind could focus on was the feeling of John, John, _John_. 

Sherlock wanted to see John. Wanted to see John fuck him. His eyes snapped open.

John was far gone. His eyes were closed, his face a thing of beautiful pleasure. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure if he was dreaming or not, but if it was a dream, then it had to be the best dream in existence. 

John was absolutely _stunning_ , his chest glistening with sweat, the dog tags slapping wildly against his skin, that dark olive belt still loose on either side of John disappearing into Sherlock, the spitting image of a captain, of Captain John Watson, in his fatigues and those damn combat boots, and Sherlock threw his head back against the mattress with a wail as John angled himself perfectly to catch his prostate with each maddeningly hard thrust.

Then John was lifting him, grabbing under his hips, pushing him back farther onto the mattress forcefully before covering Sherlock with his body, his face inches from Sherlock’s. His right hand dug under Sherlock’s head, intertwining his fingers in his hair. 

Sherlock’s hand darted out, twisting his fingers around the dog tags that threatened to slap him in the face with each drive of John’s, which were only getting harder, Sherlock’s mind starting to devolve into a puddle. He slipped the circular disks into his mouth, the biting taste of metal spreading on his tongue. He sucked on them, taking more of the chain into his mouth, moaning around them.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John gasped out, his hips stuttering out of their rhythm momentarily. 

John's eyes locked onto Sherlock's. The chain and tags slid out of Sherlock’s mouth, the discs sliding down slowly over his outstretched tongue, catching them between his teeth in show. Sherlock grinned at John's guttural groan at the sight. His eyes grew hard again, resuming his onslaught on Sherlock. 

“You are _mine_ ,” John barked out, dipping his head to Sherlock’s ear. “Do you hear me? You will always be mine.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond before a tangled moan forced its way out of his throat, the dog tags falling out to meet empty air. John had his hand firmly wrapped around Sherlock’s aching cock, pumping the forgotten thing up and down in his fist. 

Sherlock’s fingers ground into the skin of John’s lower back. His mind was on fire, his hips twitching involuntarily, his cock throbbing under John’s touch, the twisting of his flesh, being mercilessly pounded into, John’s hot breath heavy on his neck. He couldn’t keep up, couldn’t last much longer. Sherlock was primed to explode. 

“Captain- Watson-” Sherlock stuttered out, having trouble even forcing his vocal chords to cooperate, unable to finish the thought out loud. 

John never faltered, his head jerking to the side to catch Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Permission granted, soldier,” John said.

Dear God. 

John’s hand stroked him, twisting around his head, thumb passing over his frenulum in calculated movements, and Sherlock detonated. 

His body convulsed under John, his cock throbbing violently, pushing out streams of come onto his stomach, his chest, the bedsheets next to him. Sherlock wailed, a long uninterrupted moan as John attacked his throat, biting down and sucking on his skin, pain mixing with pleasure.

John’s breath hitched then, and he sunk his cock into Sherlock as far as he could, fingernails indenting into Sherlock’s hips. His orgasm washed over him, Sherlock feeling him throb and pulse inside of him, filling him with warmth. A choked gasp fell out of John’s mouth as his hips came to a stop.

John fell on top of him, his arms giving out. The room stilled, the two men’s shuddering breaths seeming almost foreign, much too quiet compared to moments ago. John’s body twitched lightly, his skin pulsing with aftershocks. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, still trying to contemplate all of it. The weight of John on top of him was grounding, both of their chests warring against each other as both of their breathing struggled to return to normal. John's wild heart beat resonated through Sherlock's body, matching his own. 

After what seemed like an eternity, John let out a quiet chuckle, his face pressed into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock paused, and a laugh forced its way out. He dragged his hand up John’s sweat slicked back to his head, carding his fingers through his hair, not a memory of hair gel left. Shame.

“You’re amazing, John,” Sherlock huffed out, still trying to catch his breath. He tilted his head to the left, catching John opening his eyes with some effort. A smile played on his exhausted face.

“I know,” John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's neck. An odd pause filled the room. John breathed out a bit too forcefully.

“You know you can tell me anything, Sherlock,” John said quietly. 

Ah. That’s why he was suddenly tense, then.

“Hmm. Definitely noted,” Sherlock replied. “Though, I did tell you, did I not?” he playfully added after a few beats. 

“You git,” John mumbled lightly, rolling off of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock winced at John’s softening cock leaving his body, and noted he would most definitely be sore for quite a while.

Sherlock reached his hand over to John, grabbing him by the chains of his dog tags, pulling John’s mouth onto his. John responded immediately, hand threading through Sherlock’s curls, their lips moving together slowly, tongues sliding languidly over each other. A couple of minutes passed before they separated. Sherlock smiled, pressing his forehead to John’s.

“Captain Watson,” Sherlock addressed him teasingly, and John lips pulled into a mischievous smirk as well.

“You know, you might have created a complex for me,” John said, slipping his arm over Sherlock’s chest, snuggling into his side.

“I wouldn’t be adverse to indulging that complex,” Sherlock replied, running the still-slick chain of John’s tags through his fingers. 

John stared at him with a look of adoration. Sherlock ran a thumb on John’s swollen bottom lip, before glancing downwards. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, eyebrows stitching together.

“What?” John asked.

“You’ve got your combat boots on our bed,” Sherlock noted, much to John’s amusement.

John let out a laugh. “They are clean. Besides, I think there’s worse things on this bed than my boots.” 

“Mmm, depends on how you look at it,” Sherlock said, prompting a slight smack on his ribs from John. 

“Well then, guess we won’t be having combat boots-on-sex anymore than, will we?” John teased.

“Oh no, I expect this at least once a month, John,” Sherlock corrected in a stern voice. 

John lifted his head quizzically. “You enjoyed it that much, then?”

Sherlock scoffed. “John, you really are quite unobservant.” He gestured to his stomach and chest where evidence of his _enjoyment_ , as if that word could touch the experience, was rapidly cooling on his skin. “You have no idea what you do to me in those fatigues,” he added with a grin.

John’s eyebrows lifted up, somehow only now just aware of how much of a mess Sherlock was at the moment. 

“Happy to oblige, then, _Holmes_ ,” he said, an amused expression plastered onto his face. “Ready to hit the showers?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John popped up, zipping up his fatigues, catching Sherlock’s outstretched hand to haul him to his feet as if he weighed nothing. His strength never failed to make Sherlock dizzy. John turned, tugging at Sherlock’s hand.

“John,” Sherlock said, John whipping back around to look at him. “I love you. More than you could know.” 

John cast his eyes downwards briefly before bringing them back up. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “I love you, Sherlock. More than _you_ could ever know.” 

Sherlock smiled. It was everything, and nothing could have pleased him more. John, with or without fatigues. With or without his title as Captain, or Doctor. John would always be John to Sherlock. His John. 

But, the fatigues did something for him. He paused, his mind taking calculations. Yep, definitely did something for him.

John groaned impatiently. “You done staring, Sherlock?”

“Never,” Sherlock said, eyes still raking up and down John’s form. 

“Well, you can have this whenever you like,” John replied.

“Excellent.” 

John turned on his heel, stalking forward to the washroom. Sherlock followed eagerly.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first ever post to AO3! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. I loveeee militarykink!Sherlock and had to write a piece from my perspective. I'm also not averse to John Watson in uniform either... Sherlock was right, girls are a sucker for men in uniform. 
> 
> I'm open to constructive criticisms, but please don't shred me to pieces :')
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr for all things Johnlock: https://iwearthedamnhat.tumblr.com/
> 
> Edit: Made a general edit on1/28/2021, just to clear a few things up and clean up dialogue. (:


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